


let me occupy your mind, as you do mine

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Scott McCall, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 04:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: It’s summer and they’re in the same small town again, not miles apart, not messaging at seven in the morning, or eleven at night. Not looking at each other in grainy pixelation, listening to the echo of their own voices and pausing for too long in the center of sentences because the other made a sound.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [snoopypez](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez/pseuds/snoopypez) for being my semi-colon adder, Ameripicker and the best beta cheerleader you could hope to ask for.
> 
> The title is from Gotye's "Heart's a Mess".

Stiles stares at him out of the corner of his eye whenever they occupy the same space. His gaze automatically gravitates toward him when they stand in a crowded room. He scans his face when they’re talking, covert, like it’s not accepted to give eye-contact when you’re conversing. He watches him constantly, relentlessly, and it never seems like enough.

Scott can’t fail to notice the attention but the most acknowledgement he gives is a blink or teeth against his lower lip like a temptation.

It’s summer, the air thick with sweltering heat. Beacon Hills has never followed conventional weather patterns for Northern California and Alan told them months ago that the Nemeton’s influence creates extremes. Thick carpets of snow in winter, whip-chill nights with blustering wind in fall, a slew of rain every spring – and this, blistering hot summer days that itch against the skin even when staying far from the burn of the sun.

It’s summer and they’re in the same small town again, not miles apart, not messaging at seven in the morning, or eleven at night. Not looking at each other in grainy pixelation, listening to the echo of their own voices and pausing for too long in the center of sentences because the other made a sound. 

Stiles never returned to Beacon Hills for the other breaks. He could claim it was a money issue and not a shattered heart. No one corrected him.

It’s strange, to be so close once more, within reaching distance. Strange and confronting, because Stiles is starting to realize how touch-starved he became in Washington and how much he wants to fix that here -- to draw Scott into his arms at every opportunity, press his lips against his skin, feel the heat of him, the density, remind himself he’s real. Because Stiles always knew that his feelings for Scott bordered on possessive, but never comprehended how much until he saw how he’s Scott’s completely but Scott needfully also belongs to everyone else.

Scott’s growing his hair out like he’s fifteen again, but his body has toned, strengthened and matured. The contrast between who he was and who he’s yet to be is highlighted in every movement he makes, the shift and play of his muscles in tank tops and shorts. Makes Stiles’ heart pound like he’s run all the way home, has his spine shimmering like a mirage on the sidewalk. He thinks about pressing up against Scott and breathing him in, sucking every exhale until Scott’s all he needs to survive. He pictures taking hold of him in a grip that’s a touch too tight and not letting go.

Scott’s skin is often dampened with sweat, hair curling at his nape, an errant strand against his forehead. He’s darker in the summer sun, but brighter too, a mass of contradictions – too much to look at directly, which is why Stiles is always staring kitty-cornered.

Stiles thinks about sinking his teeth into Scott, monstrous like he shouldn’t be, consuming because he can’t take care.

On any given day, Scott’s half-dream, half-nightmare. He always has Stiles wanting, clutching desperately at his peace of mind, any scrap of stability, because there’s a word for how Stiles feels and it’s _ruinous_.

They aren’t often alone. By design. Stiles thinks Scott’s as much as his, which digs under his nails and tears at his bones; at this stage it’s simple self-preservation, but it still hurts.

Somehow, though, today, one of them has slipped and they’re in the same house, no one else around. Scott arrived in his second-hand leather jacket and worn down jeans, just before midday. He’s surprised Noah’s at work, was convinced he’d be home, if his backtrack is any indication, if the tenseness at the corner of his eyes is as readable as it’s always been.

Stiles has been cooling down in boxers and his loose lacrosse tank, arm holes deep and breathable. He hasn’t touched his hair, hasn’t shaved, wasn’t expecting visitation. Scott’s seen him disheveled before, but this level seems to shock him, he keeps looking Stiles up and down when he thinks Stiles isn’t staring back.

“Want a drink?” Stiles offers, and damn, his voice is rough. He spent too much of last night mouth-breathing because he can’t stand the viscous fog passing for air during the night at Beacon fucking Hills.

Scott’s teetering on the verge of saying no. It’s clear in the line of his shoulders, his gait as he rocks back on his heels. He’s an excuse away from escape.

“Yeah,” Scott gusts out eventually, offering something that’s neither a smile nor a grimace. He shrugs off his jacket, places it on the back of a nearby chair. “Water? You got any ice?” 

“I have no idea. But I can look. Use my newly burgeoning detective skills.”

“How’s that all going, anyway?”

“I told you. I tell you every week.”

“Yeah, but truthfully. Is it okay?” Scott leans back on the kitchen counter, pecs and biceps rippling. “I still – I have panic attacks sometimes. Once in the library. Once on the lacrosse field. There was a storm a month ago. I hid under the covers until it passed over Davis. With what you’re doing? I can’t imagine it’s any kind of relaxing.”

It’s the most Scott’s spoken since they arrived in Beacon Hills. It’s the kind of candid Stiles struggles with himself. But he wants to attempt it, to at least say he did.

“If I’m focused, distracted, there isn’t a problem. But I need to be busy. Can’t handle downtime. I’m lucky, that’s only happened twice. I’m, like, run off my feet, sometimes literally. Apparently you have to be able to pass a physical? Ugh. Running is the worst.” 

“That sounds like the worst thing that’s ever happened to you,” Scott says, dry, eyebrow quirking.

Stiles passes Scott his glass of water, ice clinking and condensation smearing against his fingers. Their hands brush during the handover and Stiles tries hard not to act like he’s been electrocuted.

“Did anyone help you, when it happened?” Stiles asks. Knowing he doesn’t have to specify the panic attacks. Knowing that he and Scott speak their own language, most of the time, conducted as much in expressions as words. His chest has been clenching at the idea of Scott without any support, even one as imperfect and misshapen as him. “You didn’t have to manage it alone, did you?” 

“I had help. From Trina. Griffin. Remember them?”

“Oh yeah, Griffin. The guy who introduced you to D&D, even though I tried seven years ago and your interest level was in the region of negative fucks.”

The bitterness is played for comedy, but it still tastes sour on Stiles’ tongue. And Scott can definitely tell, because he stares at his feet, rebalances incrementally.

“I was different then.”

“So was I,” Stiles admits; an olive branch.

God, weren’t they. Not happy, exactly. Both missing a parent. Both too aware of awkward limbs and undesirable personalities. One too sweet and caring, the other not enough. Different and so, so innocent to what life would bring them at a much too young age.

After Scott’s taken a few sips, his lips pout like a pinky promise. Stiles’ tongue is decidedly dry, welding to the roof of his mouth, even though he’s been drinking too, even though he has ice sitting on the tip of that traitorous tongue as he fails to tear his eyes away from Scott.

“You know I miss you, don’t you?” Scott asks, carefully, like any wrong word might cause an explosion.

It might. Stiles’ heart is rattling snare-drum fast.

“And now we’re both here and we’ve hardly spoken,” Stiles says, because he always says he’s a coward, claims he’s cautious, will point out his problems with being candid, but lying’s second nature to him directly _after_ blunt honesty. 

“You wanna speak?” Scott asks, softly, dragging a hand through his hair. His curls spring back into place and it’s mesmerizing. Just like Scott’s steady gaze. Just like the suggestion in the space between his feet. Just like every impure thought Stiles has had in relation to his hands mapping Scott’s body.

“No,” Stiles says. A confession.

“I need you to tell me I’m not imagining this right now, Stiles,” Scott pleads, whisper-quiet. “Because I have been. I do. Ever since I forgot you. Ever since I needed to bring you back. I think about us.”

He knew this. It’s why he’s been so scared. He’s known that Scott’s been feeling the same way he has. Maybe for longer than Stiles realized. It isn’t like when they were younger, when Stiles would make his attraction a joke because it eased the pain that Scott could never reciprocate. Scott has invariably been staring right back at him every time he gets fixated. It’s been obvious in the careful, considered way Scott’s been skirting around him. In the lingering touches when they would brush by each other by accident.

On a scale of one to fucking dumb, this is ‘trust Peter Hale’. Stiles is well aware that if he takes this opportunity, takes Scott, there’s no giving him back. He will hold onto him like he’s a life preserver and refuse to drown in a sea of long-held guilt, anxiety and a constant need to fight.

Scott deserves better than that. He should be with someone who doesn’t want to claw him into little pieces and keep him locked away from prying eyes. With someone who can be the strength when he has none left to give, who can comfort him in moments of weakness. He should be with someone who doesn’t need too much and feel too strongly and want too badly.

But there’s knowing this and believing in it, and Stiles lost whatever faith he had a long time ago.

Stiles steps close to Scott, brackets him against the counter, not touching, not yet.

“What do you think about?” he asks, staring at Scott’s lips, for fear of losing a word, a lick, a sigh.

Scott’s the bravest person Stiles knows, but it isn’t because he refuses to be intimidated. It’s because he is, but forges on anyway. He adjusts position lower, as if coiled ready to attack, knowing that Stiles is another monster he needs to defend himself from.

“I think about my hands on your hips,” Scott says, softly -- an innocuous phrase with a tense undertone. “Your fingers along my spine. About what it would be like to open up and let you in.”

There’s an inch of space between them and it feels just the same distance as when they’re in different timezones. 

Stiles thinks about tasting the tacky sweetness of Scott’s twice-bitten lips, about thumbing them open and gazing at the contrast between sharp teeth and plush pink. He thinks about kissing Scott until neither of them can remember how this is the worst of all their terrible ideas.

“I could do that,” Stiles warns. He looks down at the length of Scott below him, the lean of his body in counterpoint to the granite behind. He looks at the rippling hardness of Scott’s muscles and deceptive softness in the tender hollow of his neck. “But we’d both have to be prepared to face the consequences.”

“Sounds ominous,” Scott replies mildly, like he hasn’t been taking this just as seriously as Stiles, like he can’t also see that this has the potential to rip them apart better than any blade or betrayal.

Stiles finally looks up into Scott’s eyes and sees a mirror of the warmth in the air. Not sluggish today so much as crackling.

“I just want to make it clear.”

“You think I don’t know the risks? Of the two of us, who do you think is the most cautious?”

Scott’s measured confidence has the heat licking up Stiles’ spine leaping even hotter, incinerator strong. Scott can probably see the tent in his boxer shorts in his peripheral vision and it’s starting to throb insistently, reminding Stiles how riled up he is.

“I ever tell you I hate it when you make these salient points that I’ve been trying to ignore?”

“Not in so many words,” Scott says with a huff of a laugh. He’s edged closer, until Stiles can almost feel the touch of his skin, a phantom weight along his front. He doesn’t seem constrained by Stiles’ cage around him at all. He tilts his head to the side, studies and investigates and analyzes. He’s every bit the detective Stiles will one day train to become. “What do _you_ think about, Stiles?”

Stiles wonders if the truth will scare Scott away or tug him closer.

“The look in your eyes when I touch you the way I’ve been dreaming about. The weight of you against my tongue. The sounds you’d make when I press into you for the first time. I think about eating you up and swallowing you whole.”

“You’re as fucked up as me,” Scott murmurs, suddenly standing upright. It swings him dramatically into Stiles’ space and he’s tempted to take a step back, believes this is Scott’s sensible side arriving. That Scott is finally fleeing. 

But that’s not it, because Scott doesn’t back away from danger. Has never been into self-preservation. Scott will take things incrementally, will balance all the options, will formulate numerous plans, and still rush headlong into disaster.

Scott kisses Stiles – the opposite of tentative. He kisses him with purpose, licking at the seam of Stiles’ lips before Stiles has any clue what’s happening. He’s firebrand hot against him, one hand settled under Stiles’ waistband on his right hip. He kisses like he’s written essays about it; half expertise, half research.

Stiles realizes he’s clinging white-knuckled to the countertop and eases away from it, to wrap his arms tight around Scott’s body, stroke up his neck and into the dip of his lower back.

The curl of Scott within his embrace is either torment or contentment and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with how his body reacts. He shuffles Scott backward until he’s definitively trapped, until Stiles has him ensnared in his web, but if anything, Scott kisses more urgently because of it. He dips Stiles’ waistband lower, caresses at a spot that has his abs jumping and twitching.

There’s a wet spot forming at the front of Stiles’ boxers; he can feel the damp cloth cooling. When Scott arches deeper into him, he’s instantly aware _he_ ’s in the same predicament, dick a hard length against Stiles’ thigh.

Sometimes, Stiles finds it hard to focus -- any sound, change of light, sudden scent or new texture arresting his interest. Combining that with his _hyperfocus_ is a match made in heaven. Scott is a riot of new experiences and Stiles wants to learn them all. He loves the sigh Scott makes when they part for air between long, drugging kisses. The way his eyes glint in the midday sunlight cascading from the window. How he smells of drying sweat and fading cologne. And the sandpapery smoothness of his stubble barely catching against Stiles’. Scott is simultaneously one and a million sensations and Stiles could get lost in him.

Stiles has been imagining this for as long as he knew how to make himself feel good and he never anticipated just how good it could feel.

Scott’s hand wanders lower to grip his ass and push him closer, until they’re rubbing against each other with a filthy grind. Stiles gusts out a groan, but it’s muffled by Scott’s lips. He’s annoyed by how many layers there are between them, the thick denim of Scott’s jeans obscuring the heat of his dick, his T-shirt plastering to every single one of his muscles. He pushes ineffectively at the hem of the shirt, is more successful with the zipper. The problem is he doesn’t want to stop kissing Scott. The answer is he has to.

“Wanna see you,” Stiles says, eventually, when he can get his brain to start thinking verbally again.

There’s a bead of sweat in the divot of Scott’s collar bones and his hair is a mess as he pulls off his shirt. His lips have gone strawberry ice cream pink and look just as wet and inviting. Stiles sweeps his gaze over the breadth of him; though he notices he’s not as broad as he has been in the past, is more running to lean. He’s still muscular, but he no longer looks like he could rip through his shirts with a single flex. It doesn’t make him look any less powerful. His strength rests in his quiet confidence and his economy of movement. How he knows more about his capabilities and downplays his weaknesses – except for this moment, obviously – except for how he didn’t have the good sense to withdraw from Stiles’ clutches.

Stiles drags his fingers over Scott’s torso, won’t allow himself to smirk at Scott’s trembled response.

“We should go somewhere there’s a more comfortable horizontal surface,” Scott suggests. Stiles is jealous of his ability to string together a coherent sentence, let alone a rational thought.

“You’re probably right,” Stiles says, drawing him into another deep kiss. They don’t part until Scott’s jeans are pooled at his ankles and Stiles has a hand cupping the fat head of his dick.

Scott cants into him with a wide mouthed ‘oh’, his forehead scrunching like he’s forgotten a well-known formula. Stiles kisses the wrinkles, just to see how they feel against his lips. When he draws back, Scott’s staring at him, wide-eyed, like he never expected such naked affection. Stiles caresses his jaw as he grinds the heel of his palm into Scott’s cloth-covered cock.

“Always wanted to see you like this,” Stiles confesses, voice loud in the stillness of the kitchen as Scott kicks his pants off his feet and to the side. He thinks it’s an admission too far. Scott’s said he’s felt this way for a year at the most and though Stiles knows that doesn’t make it _less_ , the extent of his wanting in return seems excessive.

It doesn’t deter Scott. He surges forward and grips the back of Stiles’ thighs, hoists him up over his hips like he’s feather light and begins a slow march to Stiles’ bedroom.

Stiles is not even remotely embarrassed by the squeak he makes in response. He wraps his arms around Scott’s neck, braces his thighs tightly around Scott’s middle, and enjoys the ride.

It’s darker and warmer in Stiles’ room, the air syrupy like the precome that’s soaked through his shorts. For once, Stiles doesn’t complain. Scott sits on the bed so that Stiles is straddling him, has started nuzzling into the low dip of his tank, the material bunching and rubbing with the best kind of friction against Stiles’ oversensitive nipples. Stiles wriggles until Scott’s dick is nestled sweetly between his cheeks, and though he’s mostly thought about being inside Scott, staking claim, he fervently wants to know what it’d feel like to take Scott into the depths of him.

Scott nudges into the drag of Stiles’ fingers at the nape of his neck. He ghosts his mouth over Stiles’ nipple and begins to suck, short-circuiting any and all thought processes Stiles had been engaging in. Stiles had a vague cognizance that his nipples are hardwired to his dick, but it’s only here, with the pulsing wet warmth of Scott’s mouth, that he appreciates that fully.

Scott attacks the other nipple after a couple minutes, then pulls off with a slurping smack.

“You got any slick?”

Stiles’ snorting scoff is the opposite of dignified. He climbs off Scott, shaky-limbed, and gets out his good lube and three different kinds of condoms. Scott’s eyes crinkle at the corners and his lips curve into a smile that’s pure indulgence.

“What?” Stiles asks, faux-innocence.

“I like that sometimes you surprise me and other times you really don’t. That this is both.”

Stiles finally smiles at that, can feel how soft and genuinely happy it is. He should be feeling all of the shame in the world right now, but he isn’t, he can’t. In all the months they’ve been apart – partly self-imposed exile – he’s been starved. And now he’s ravenous.

Scott takes off the last of his clothes. His cock springs against his lower abdomen, the head sticky-shine and purple-red. He’s beautiful, in the dappled light that escapes Stiles’ blinds, in the glisten of sweat and saliva. He’s every image Stiles conjured as he force-fucked himself into his fist in this room, every night. Sometimes morning. Before a Sunday afternoon nap.

“Will you lie back for me?” Stiles asks, knowing it’s a trust-fall. Knowing he’s failed Scott before.

Scott does it, though, leans on his elbows, his legs spreading wide. He’s the dictionary definition of eager, his chest heaving and his eyes already heavy-lidded as he watches Stiles strip and then pour lube into his palm.

Stiles is careful as he slides the tips of his fingers around Scott’s hole, teases like he knows all his secrets. He works at Scott’s cock with his other hand, thumbing at the slit. A spurt of precome wets the tip until it looks even more delectable, and before Stiles can think about it, he bends down and sucks it into his mouth. Scott’s thighs bunch and tense, but he doesn’t rut into Stiles, not even though the whine that leaves his throat suggests he’d like nothing better.

It doesn’t take long to knuckle deep into Scott with two fingers, to spread and stroke and savor his tight warmth. Tight, but loosening steadily. Scott’s more pliable than Stiles was expecting.

“You’re opening up for me so easily. You must be greedy for it.”

“I am,” Scott says, tilting his hips up even further. “I’d wake up in wet sheets, your name on my lips. Started fingering myself, curious to know what you’d feel like inside me.”

Stiles’ brain stutters to a halt.

Every night they’d speak Stiles had dreamed about snugging his cock deep inside Scott and creating a space only he can fill. It’s a whiplash jolt to think that Scott was doing the same thing, thousands of miles away. 

Stiles loves being able to look into Scott’s face as he continues to open him up, make him ready. He has to circle the base of his own cock more than twice at the expressions Scott offers to him like benediction, but God, it’s worth it to see every flicker of emotion.

“You need to –” Scott starts with a hold on Stiles’ forearm, his PSAT-enhanced vocabulary failing him.

Stiles gets the picture. He rolls on a condom and moves until he’s nudging at the rim of Scott’s hole, entranced by the sight of their bodies joining. Scott’s claustrophobic-tight, despite all the prep, despite the fact this isn’t _hurting_ him. He rolls his hips so he can take Stiles deeper, inch by careful inch, bracing one hand on Stiles’ shoulder and the other on his side.

“Come on, Stiles. You don’t have to be gentle. I can take it,” Scott moans, petulant like he hasn’t been for years.

“I _want_ to be gentle. If I’m not, this is over in like two seconds flat, Scotty.”

It’s one of the truest things Stiles has ever told him. It’s also a lie.

He wants to be gentle because he doesn’t ever want Scott to think he’s going to cause him pain again. It’s a constant fear, the kind that haunts him daily, the thing that can trigger a panic attack as successfully as any gunshot. Perhaps it can’t be prevented, but he wants to Goddamned _try_.

He captures Scott’s mouth in a kiss as he pulls out and pushes in again; wet and sloppy, but full of meaning. He’s coring out that place for himself, but slowly, slowly, more a gift than an imposition. He angles to hit Scott’s prostate, can tell he’s found the perfect spot when Scott’s eyes roll back and his head lolls to one side.

Scott’s sweat-slick beneath him, sliding out from Stiles’ hands on his hips, musky-scented and earthy. Stiles wouldn’t want this first time any other way. He bows his back and flexes as he fucks into Scott, his own asshole twinging in sympathy with the small, happy sounds Scott makes against his mouth. He’s been so worried he’s on the verge of corrupting Scott, but the way Scott milks his cock highlights how misinformed that notion could be.

This is hell-hot, but heaven-sent.

There are millions of videos where hot young men get come-drunk and fucked-out; Stiles has attempted to watch every single one of them. Nothing compares to the real life scenario of his best friend so overwhelmed he has tears in his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every feverish swallow, the claws of his right hand tearing through already ruined bed sheets.

Scott bites at his lower lip and Stiles licks it, tender. He digs his heels into the divots of Stiles’ back and Stiles strokes along his calves. He winds his de-clawed hand around his cock and lets their movements push him closer to his own release, and Stiles presses his own hand over his knuckles to increase the pressure.

He tries to watch as Scott shoots up over his torso, he really does, but the sudden-shock vice around his dick has him scrunching his eyes up and listening to Scott’s breathy shouts instead. He juts into him, frantically, throat squeezing tight to mirror the sensation around him, the rhythmic clench.

He sighs when his balls lock up and he comes inside Scott so hard he sees every star he can’t name and constellation he forgets exists.

Stiles feels more for Scott than simple physical fascination, it's deeper than that, darker too. He harbors a destructive kind of devotion, the kind that would watch the world burn so that Scott could marvel at the colors and light. But like this, tangled up in Scott, their heartbeats rapping out similar tempos, all he can think about is how much he wants to do this again. 

Minutes later, Stiles can’t tell how many, only that he’s slipped out of Scott, tied the condom up and gotten it in his trashcan a yard away, he feels a faint reverberation and squints around quizzically. He realizes it’s Scott laughing about a second too late. 

“That not-speaking thing has worked out well for us,” Scott explains at his expression, rubbing his hand through Stiles’ damp hair and rubbing softly into the thin skin of his neck. “I was worried about it.”

“I was afraid of saying too much,” Stiles admits. He looks down at the mess of them. “Not anymore.”

“I wish you’d told me sooner.”

Maybe when Scott said he wanted Stiles to open him up, he didn’t mean with his fingers or his lips. Perhaps it was figurative. Stiles wraps his hands into his curls and kisses his apology. It’s a chaste press of their lips, a nose-rub, a murmur.

“Didn’t wanna lose you.”

“You won’t. _I_ lost you, remember. I could never let that happen again.”

Stiles nips Scott’s lower lip, soothes it with his tongue. He’s trying to formulate the words. He knows the tone of them; slightly admonishing, full of wonder. Can’t get the syllables in order.

In the end, he settles for simple.

“I love you.”

Scott gazes at him, covert, like he thinks he shouldn’t be allowed. He wraps his leg over Stiles’, tucks himself neatly into his side, until they’re pressed so close there’s no air between them.

“I love you too.”

It’s summer, and Stiles has to give Scott back in two months, will have to relinquish his hold – but he realizes that it’ll only be physically – the tangible connection, and startlingly temporary. Because Scott belongs to other people too, yes, but that doesn’t mean he belongs to Stiles _less_. There are pieces of him that only Stiles has ever seen, ever touched. And the same can be said in reverse.

They’ll still have seven in the morning, or eleven at night, low definition and speaker-warped sound. But it’ll be fine, they’ll make it work, they can keep each other afloat when they can’t keep themselves.


End file.
